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Authors: Jacqueline E. Luckett
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exasperation
not exhaustion. “But, I can always treat Sharon to an expensive meal.”
Whenever Randall comes home from his trips, Lena unpacks his suitcase. A habit turned expectation that grew into its own ritual
over the years and gave them time alone; like picking him up from the airport before he became a bigwig. Sometimes he sat
on the side of the bed or in the chaise and regaled her with road gossip. Sometimes he waited for Camille and Kendrick to
leave their room to tell her how much he missed her, or shut the door and showed her.
Now Lena takes
I, Tina
from the nightstand and walks past their king-sized bed, the rectangle of his open suitcase, and into her office. He is punishing
her, she knows, punishing her for questioning the life he wants for her: be the good girl, follow the rules. She reads her
email, goes onto the official Tina Turner site and resists the temptation to rush to the stereo, to turn off Coltrane’s saxophone
just now beginning to drift through the house and exchange it for Tina’s music as loud as the speakers will permit.
Near the end of her time with Ike, Tina visited a friend who practiced Buddhism. The visual of the woman, though not her name,
is still in Lena’s head: the woman, and soon afterward Tina, made a small altar before which they could sit and chant and
mold a ritual to soothe their spirits and make them strong.
Two stubby candles still sit on her desk. With a candle on either side, and a stack of Tina’s CDs atop the paperback, Lena
reminds herself to pick up incense and a holder, perhaps a crystal, tomorrow. Her ritual, she thinks, does not have to be
elaborate. The process of lighting the candles, of slowing down her thoughts, of scanning random passages from
I, Tina
helps her to gather, little by little, the sum of all the parts—good and not—to help her to press on.
f f f
By the time she steps into the bathroom, Randall is already soaking in the tub. Two glasses of wine, his nearly empty, sit
on the marble-tiled ledge. He slurps his wine and, eyes closed, rests his head against the tiled wall behind him. “Ahhhh.
I needed this. Thanks, hon.”
Lena kneels beside the tub so that her face looks directly at his and drags her hand through the scented water, forcing steam
and the odor of musk to drift in the air between them. “I can’t help but wonder, Randall, how keeping you on track makes your
secretary and your assistant more worthy of your thoughtfulness than your wife.”
“It’s no big deal, Lena. You don’t like cheap stuff anyway. I’ll take you to San Francisco next week. You can pick up something
then.”
“That’s not the point, Randall.”
“The point is I’m home, not with them, and I’m tired.”
Her boots come off slowly, as do her cashmere sweater and tight jeans. She tosses them next to the four pairs left on the
floor from earlier this evening before she settled on the French ones, to show off her hips. Randall did not notice her hips
or the jeans at the airport, just as at this minute, eyes closed in a trance of concentration, he doesn’t notice her nakedness.
The water sloshes against the sides of the long tub when Lena stirs it with her foot. When she steps in, Randall opens his
eyes and leans forward. He cups her breasts and massages them in that way that always makes her moan. Lena pulls away before
she does, before she starts something even her momentary meditation has left her still too upset to finish.
“I’m already feeling the jet lag.” Randall scoops hot water over his chest and head and repeats this motion two more times.
Wrinkled eyebrows keep the rivulets from his eyes. “I’m ready to sleep in my own bed.” He swallows the rest of his wine with
one quick swig, steps out of the tub, and dries himself roughly before going off to bed.
f f f
The rasp of Randall’s snores matches the sawing sounds of the final minutes of a movie on TV. Sleep is
not exhaustion. “But, I can always treat Sharon to an expensive meal.”
Whenever Randall comes home from his trips, Lena unpacks his suitcase. A habit turned expectation that grew into its own ritual
over the years and gave them time alone; like picking him up from the airport before he became a bigwig. Sometimes he sat
on the side of the bed or in the chaise and regaled her with road gossip. Sometimes he waited for Camille and Kendrick to
leave their room to tell her how much he missed her, or shut the door and showed her.
Now Lena takes
I, Tina
from the nightstand and walks past their king-sized bed, the rectangle of his open suitcase, and into her office. He is punishing
her, she knows, punishing her for questioning the life he wants for her: be the good girl, follow the rules. She reads her
email, goes onto the official Tina Turner site and resists the temptation to rush to the stereo, to turn off Coltrane’s saxophone
just now beginning to drift through the house and exchange it for Tina’s music as loud as the speakers will permit.
Near the end of her time with Ike, Tina visited a friend who practiced Buddhism. The visual of the woman, though not her name,
is still in Lena’s head: the woman, and soon afterward Tina, made a small altar before which they could sit and chant and
mold a ritual to soothe their spirits and make them strong.
Two stubby candles still sit on her desk. With a candle on either side, and a stack of Tina’s CDs atop the paperback, Lena
reminds herself to pick up incense and a holder, perhaps a crystal, tomorrow. Her ritual, she thinks, does not have to be
elaborate. The process of lighting the candles, of slowing down her thoughts, of scanning random passages from
I, Tina
helps her to gather, little by little, the sum of all the parts—good and not—to help her to press on.
f f f
By the time she steps into the bathroom, Randall is already soaking in the tub. Two glasses of wine, his nearly empty, sit
on the marble-tiled ledge. He slurps his wine and, eyes closed, rests his head against the tiled wall behind him. “Ahhhh.
I needed this. Thanks, hon.”
Lena kneels beside the tub so that her face looks directly at his and drags her hand through the scented water, forcing steam
and the odor of musk to drift in the air between them. “I can’t help but wonder, Randall, how keeping you on track makes your
secretary and your assistant more worthy of your thoughtfulness than your wife.”
“It’s no big deal, Lena. You don’t like cheap stuff anyway. I’ll take you to San Francisco next week. You can pick up something
then.”
“That’s not the point, Randall.”
“The point is I’m home, not with them, and I’m tired.”
Her boots come off slowly, as do her cashmere sweater and tight jeans. She tosses them next to the four pairs left on the
floor from earlier this evening before she settled on the French ones, to show off her hips. Randall did not notice her hips
or the jeans at the airport, just as at this minute, eyes closed in a trance of concentration, he doesn’t notice her nakedness.
The water sloshes against the sides of the long tub when Lena stirs it with her foot. When she steps in, Randall opens his
eyes and leans forward. He cups her breasts and massages them in that way that always makes her moan. Lena pulls away before
she does, before she starts something even her momentary meditation has left her still too upset to finish.
“I’m already feeling the jet lag.” Randall scoops hot water over his chest and head and repeats this motion two more times.
Wrinkled eyebrows keep the rivulets from his eyes. “I’m ready to sleep in my own bed.” He swallows the rest of his wine with
one quick swig, steps out of the tub, and dries himself roughly before going off to bed.
f f f
The rasp of Randall’s snores matches the sawing sounds of the final minutes of a movie on TV. Sleep is
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